


The Space Between: The Missing Scene

by S_Faith



Series: The Space Between [2]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-23
Updated: 2006-10-23
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Okay, in the original story it tastefully fades to black. Here's the missing scene.





	The Space Between: The Missing Scene

**Author's Note:**

> Or, an excuse to get smutty, because [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/)**just_dreamsome** thinks I oughta share. If I had more brainpower I could probably think of a clever subtitle, but, alas, I do not.
> 
> You'll see some, shall we say, _common themes_ recurring (see note at end when done). Just sit back, relax, and enjoy. (I hope.)
> 
> The segment that fits in at the end of the first scene starts after the ellipsis. I'm including the end of that scene for context.

She pushed the pile on the bed off onto the floor and the bedclothes back towards the far side of the bed, and sat on its edge. 

He switched on the bedside lamp, switched off the light at the door. He crouched at her feet, sliding his hands up her legs and under the hem of her tank top. "Want to warn you," he whispered, as he slid his hands even higher, "I've just been on two trans-Atlantic flights, and may not be adequately up to the task."

"Something tells me you'll shore up just fine," she said softly, her arms encircling his neck to pull herself down into his kiss once more.

…

His fingers tugged the edge of the tank up and he broke their kiss in order to pull the shirt up over her head, which he tossed unceremoniously onto one of the multitudes of clothing piles. His fingers then moved to her silly panties, working them down and off; they too were launched over his shoulder. He then pressed her close to him with insistent fingers, panting heavily into her ear, before placing gentle, open-mouthed kisses on her throat.

As he was seriously overdressed for the occasion and seemingly disengaged from the logic needed to draw that conclusion, she reached down for the bottom of his turtleneck and slipped her fingers just inside the waistband of his trousers, searching for the tail of his undershirt. He stopped in order to assist her in her goal, shucking both of them, launching them to the farthest reaches. She ran her hand along his arm, to his shoulder, then up to caress his face. Her eyes met his. The corner of her mouth upturned as he leaned forward to kiss her again, their bare skin meeting as they embraced. He moved to graze her earlobe with his teeth, his decidedly not-mobile-phone again making its presence known against her as he leaned forward as far as he could.

As he continued his ministrations, she trailed her nails once again along the waist of his trousers, finding the fastener and deftly undoing it, parting the sides and pushing gently down, fingertips brushing against his hipbones. He made a soft noise and stopped, pulling back to engage her eyes.

They both seemed to realise simultaneously that the edge of the bed was becoming unsuitable for such eager activity. In a husky whisper, he breathed, "Give me a moment." He rose to his feet as she pushed herself back and up against her pillows.

He stood and turned away from her, stepped out of his shoes and slipped out of his stockings. He reached into his back pocket, emptying it onto the nightstand (several condom packets and a wallet comprising its contents). He then divested himself fully of his trousers and boxers, the sight of which somehow did not surprise her. The low light from the bedside lamp cast his body in a gentle chiaroscuro that was extremely flattering: the well-defined muscles of his lower back; skin quite soft-looking on bottom; and legs that looked highly toned and quite strong. He looked back over his shoulder at her with an almost shy smile, then turned to face her, and she could not contain a quiet "oh". She could not remember the last time any man, Daniel included, had displayed such an immense desire for her. 

He caught her admiring eye; she swore he actually blushed.

She couldn't resist a little tease: "Do you always carry a pocketful of johnnies?"

His colour might have deepened; it was too dark to know for sure. "Not always."

"Pretty sure of yourself," she smirked.

"Not at all," he said, slipping back onto the bed, situating himself alongside her. "Just optimistic."

It was her turn to blush.

Laid bare to his gaze and touch, his hand traveled to her hip as he regarded her in silence, his eyes taking an almost tactile path along the curve of her shoulder, her breasts, her waist, hips and legs, then back up along her abdomen and back to her collarbone, along her throat and the line of her jaw. 

She took in the details previously hidden by his clothes: aside from that which she'd taken note of before he'd returned to her on the mattress, he had a rather handsome chest, broad, not too overly developed (there was nothing more unattractive to her than a man with larger breasts than her own), not too hairy, and in very fine shape indeed.

Under normal circumstances, she would have been cringing to be under such scrutiny by a prospective partner; she realised she must have had an expression of discomfort upon her countenance because he asked, "What's the matter?"

She smiled lopsidedly, her voice surprisingly tremulous when she spoke: "I have never liked being on display."

"Oh, Bridget," he said softly, "you have nothing at all to be ashamed of." The reverent way in which he regarded her communicated that these were more than empty words. He reached forward and brushed her hair away from her face with his free hand, which then traveled down to briefly finger her heart-shaped necklace, tracing a path between her breasts to her navel.

"The first time we met, I mean as adults… how did I not realise…?" he continued, trailing off, coming so close to her that their faces were mere inches apart, his warm breath rolling over her cheek. His hand caressed her hip, her waist, slowly moving upwards on her body again.

"Hmmm. Clearly the jumper was to blame. As was my up—holstered dress." Her voice faltered as his fingertips passed over her nipple, paused to savour it. Her lids flickered, but all the while he watched her with unblinking eyes, clearly pleased by her reaction.

It was beyond time for clever retorts; she wanted him more than she ever could have dreamed. She launched herself upwards, ambushed him with a kiss and pulled him back down with her, her hands finding purchase on his bare back.

Surprised yet compliant, he soon forced himself away with an undignified groan, his hand reaching (rather, fumbling) for protection from the bedside table. In her semi-focused state, she pushed herself up on her elbows and tried to help him as she murmured apologies for nearly jumping the gun, but he turned away from her and muttered in an eerily businesslike tone that she needn't apologise, that she had merely pushed his timetable forward, his concentration fully on the task at hand. When complete, he met her eyes again and she was almost alarmed by the intensity of his gaze.

He reached for her again and caressed her hip, running his fingers lightly over her bottom and the small of her back. At the same time, he bent over her and returned his attention to her breast, this time gently taking the peak between his teeth. She gasped, arching instinctively into him as she laid back onto the bed. She felt his hand circle around her bottom to her thigh, where it encouraged her to raise her knee. She could only utter a few unconnected syllables as she felt his weight press along the length of her, as he savoured each centimeter of skin between her breast and her chin before he kissed her deeply on the mouth.

She squirmed as she felt his fingers slide along the crease of her hip, knowing their destination all too well, and she groaned softly when they met the part of her longing most for his touch. Surely there was no remaining doubt how badly she wanted him, and he only made it worse by circling his fingertips much like his intensely probing kiss. Just as she was certain she could take no more, he withdrew that tender touch, and she gasped his name at the loss of it. As he continued kissing her with a ferocity that surpassed anything he'd delivered on the snowy street, he shifted his weight and swiftly entered her. She broke the kiss and moaned in surprise; the sensation was delicious, perfect, filling her to capacity, and she told him so to the best of her ability as he drove forward with a groan of exertion. Again. Again. And yet again.

Her encouragement seemed to cause him to redouble his efforts, duly reflected in the increase of his rhythm and the power behind his thrust. She met his cadence with equal and opposite force, pushing herself into him, fingers alternately pressing into his back and grasping her sheets. He raised his head with a moan, breaking the kiss; she sensed his imminent release, and through half-lidded eyes she watched him. His eyes were closed, his lower lip was caught between his teeth, then he shuddered and finally went still, collapsing on top of her.

It was not, obviously, the best time for him to cease what he'd been doing, but she smiled – for she had quite enjoyed the journey despite not reaching the destination – and combed her trembling fingers through his sweat-dampened locks.

His cheek had come to rest against her collarbone, and his chest was still heaving some moments later when he managed, "God, Bridget… that was… _God_. I'm sorry."

It took her several seconds to process what he'd said. She'd been told a lot of things after a good shag, but could not in her recollection ever remember being _apologised_ to. "Huh?" she queried in her search for clarity, lifting her head off of the pillow.

He raised his head to meet her eyes, and blinked. "I didn't intend that to be… over so quickly. I just… I couldn't contain myself."

"Oh." Bridget smirked lopsidedly, her head dropping back to the pillow, but kept her gaze upon him. She could not feel slighted in the least that he had been _that_ excited about shagging her. She remarked, her hands roaming along his upper back and her fingernails gently raking over the curve of his shoulder, "I guess you did rather leave me in the dust."

He looked slightly horrified for a moment before regaining his post-coital serenity. He brushed back tendrils of damp hair from her cheek; his voice was earnest when he said, "I'll just have to make it up to you, won't I?"

He shifted himself over to her side again, lifting himself up on one elbow. After discarding the condom in the bedside trashbin, he turned back to her and she saw that dangerously sultry fire in his eyes again. His fingers flitted along her thigh, heading between her legs again. She felt his fingers brush against the still-highly-aroused nub of nerves and at the very first touch she felt a moan escape her. He pressed his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply, nipping at her lower lip, then, quick learner that he was, returned to cover her breast with his mouth. Both points of intense contact were sending her into a heady rapture; she heard a guttural cry that she knew must be her own. The staccato pulse intensified and she arched with pleasure. Her climax overtook her quite unexpectedly, and she was not shy in vocalizing about it. At last her body went limp and she subsided into her sheets.

"That… that's… better," she said between gasping breaths. 

His voice was smoky as he spoke close to her ear. "We human rights lawyers are nothing if not fair." He took away his fingers, drawing them across the sheet before running his palm over her abdomen and down her hip in a tender caress. Once her breath steadied, she met his eyes again. He leaned forward to kiss her once more, and it was then she realised his own desire was quite rekindled.

"I promise to take it slower, this time."

He reached again for the nightstand.

_End segment._

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this may sound familiar, but this was honest to goodness (mostly) written well before "[Nice Boys _What_?](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13501074)" If anything, that story was drawn from this segment. And yes, I know, another post-shag-apologetic Mark, but a.) simultaneous orgasm is not as common as TV and movies would have you believe and b.) I can totally picture Mark being instantly remorseful, feeling almost selfish for finishing first and, GAH, c.) I am suddenly reminded of Cleaver's snarky comment in _EOR_ about "Is it true he always says 'I'm sorry, but I think I'm going to come'?", or however that goes, but I totally wasn't thinking of that….


End file.
